She Cannot Love Me
by this is not a pipe
Summary: I would kill her, but my hands quiver – they love her too much. I would insult her, but my lips tremble – they long for her kiss. I love her, I hate her. Oh, such a thin, thin line between love and hate.


**Disclaimer: The beautiful music all belongs to Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber, while the story itself, the one that stole so many hearts and time and health - because these obsessions can't be healthy - belongs to Gaston Leroux.**

Christine is my love…but at the same time, she is my worst enemy

Christine is my love…but at the same time, she is my worst enemy. I would kill her, but my hands quiver – they love her too much. I would insult her, but my lips tremble – they long for her kiss. My mind is losing a battle with my heart. I love her, I hate her. Oh, such a thin, _thin_ line between love and hate.

(and a fine fine line between a lover and a friend.)

We are not friends.

(you might have been you used to be you used to be her angel)

No knife can cut such a line, no matter how thin.

(it's not her you should hate it is yourself)

And now everything around me is crashing against the cruel walls of reality, and my whole life is a wave, rocking me here and there until I forget my purpose. I don't know who I should hate – her, me, fate? I've hated too much and allowed for too much hope. I loved only one, but the love was too strong. It engulfed us both until it reeked of poison and we were left in the darkness with only obsession and fear.

And now my mind and my heart are tired of the hating and the loving, the hoping and crying. My sanity collapses into shreds, and I am left alone, defenseless and weaponless in this brutal war.

I have lost the ability to distinguish between whom I loved and whom I hated. It's too late to sort it out now. I have lost sight of who she is – this child, this woman, this angel that stands before me. I fear I might explode with all the emotion raking my body. I fear she might explode as well, that maybe she already has. Her face is a palette of hatred and love, anger and serenity, sadness and disappointment.

She is so perfect, my Christine. Her lips are small and red; her eyes are almonds both in color and shape.

Perfect, so unlike me.

(she is evil she cannot do you any good leave her she is just like the rest of them)

I scream at my mind to cease the torment. I have given up completely. I do not want to lover her; I have lost sight of what she has become. What have I driven her to?

(you are the one that drove her to change you are the thing that led her to coldness and hatred and emptiness)

I can't help loving her, and I can't help remember all the things she used to be. She was young and loving, carefree and oh so _alive_. I miss her – I miss that girl, but I still see a trace of the child lingering in her eyes. They are qualities that are embedded inside her, fragments of the person she once was.

And she was the one I loved. She was the thing I wanted, the thing I have become obsessed with all these years. But the person standing before me is not her. It is a person much like me, and I have not yet learned to love myself. I doubt I ever will.

(abandon your love of her she is like you now and you despise who you are)

Damn her! Curse her! But despite the cursing, I condemn myself. I am choking, dying of love of her. This beauty, this angel, watching with such indifference, and I am dying! I am dizzy, the world is spinning, and unnoticed tears rain silently from my eyes. I stagger and sway and teeter. I'm weak and I cannot take it anymore; I want to fall to my knees and beg her to love me.

I look deep into her eyes – my mind is too feeble to tell the color now. I remember it, somewhere in the back of my head I can see the image of beauty and perfection that she was, but now all I see is a woman made wholly of hate. What moments ago was a clear image of beauty is now red hair, red eyes, and blood flowing freely around her – like the fervent flow of rivers, like the gushing outflow of a waterfall. Her heart bleeds inside of her, killing the gentleness that she once was.

She is the image of loathing – a sadistic, sensual demon. She is an unfamiliar creature who has taken over my poor Christine. But when she turns away from me, when she averts her age, she is the angel that I fell in love with once more.

Now I must hold on to something or I know I will collapse in a heap of tears and agony. I am turning blind with the sheer madness of it all; the betrayal that poisoned our love, the awful smell of death and heartbreak. I am blinded by hate and longing and second chances that will never come. Why does she not love me? Why can she not see that I cannot live without her?

I dare not take even a single breath without her by my side, loving me. I dare not play a tune without her holding me, wanting me as I do her.

She must love me. She must be different. She must care. She must not merely look at me, she must _see _through my cruel façade. She must see that I love her, see that I can be good. But it is a cruel world, and the fates only ever sit there, mocking me.

I am dying. I will not be able to make it – not without her heart, not without her love. Please love me, that's all I'll ever ask of you. Love me unconditionally; love me without fear or hesitation. Love me love me love me _love me_!

But she cannot. She _will _not. And I must simply die, breathless and helpless as I fall into the bottomless, burning hell of an unrequited love. Because no matter how much I plead, beg, sing, die, cry, hate, hope desire, wish, ask, play, give, take, threaten, _love_ –

– She cannot love me.

**A/N: Flame me, love me. Reviews are welcomed. **


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